Riding With the Tide
by Rabirhek
Summary: Spoilers for Season 6; sequel to 'On the Watercourse'. The team deals with Prentiss's return. Focus on character interaction.
1. The Reunion

**May. 12th, 2011 | 07:40 p.m**

_**A/N:** Sequel to _On the Watercourse;_ reading it first would help make sense of certain absences and probable question marks one might have while reading this story. Set in Season 7, about five months after the events of episode 6x18, _Lauren_. Spoilers for themes and events throughout Season 6. No warnings._

* * *

><p><em>But rather turn the pipe and waters course<em>_  
><em>_To serve thy sinnes, and furnish thee with store__  
><em>_Of sov'raigne tears, springing from true remorse:__  
><em>_That so in purenesse thou mayst him adore,_

_Who gives to man, as he sees fit, salvation/damnation_

-George Herbert, _The Water-course_

**Chapter One: The Reunion**

It is a perfectly ordinary day at Washington Dulles International Airport.

Late in the August afternoon, buzzing crowds of people flow through the gates as thick slices of sunlight pour in through the glass ceilings and bathe the halls in a lively orange color. A dark-skinned young man draws on a sketchpad; there's a smile on his face as his hand moves up and down on the paper in quick, sharp movements. The airport is the perfect place for a sketch artist, for all kinds of emotions can be seen here at all times.

There are tearful departures and joyful reunions at every gate. There is excitement on some faces; like the group of teenagers talking loudly as they keep bouncing on their feet, joking around, glancing at their tickets as though to convince themselves that this is real, that they really are taking this trip to Europe. There is reluctance and dread on some faces, like that of the balding man in a wrinked business suit who clenches his coffee cup with irritated fingers, or the old woman with enormous earrings who tells her grandson to stop bothering people or he will never see his PlayStation again.

For some, there are only one-way tickets. There are those who leave alone, and those who arrive alone. Those who don't expect a welcome where they're going to, and those who don't where they are returning to.

An ordinary day at the airport, for most of these people, is far from being ordinary.

The strange group of four lingering by Gate G3A is no exception to this. And neither is the person they are expecting.

But again, not many people welcome a friend back from the dead every day.

/

Each one of them is handling the tension in their own way.

Garcia is offering everyone a cup of coffee, nodding absently at their just as absent thanks and unceremoniously dropping one cup into the trash when Reid refuses it with a shake of his head. She starts pacing through an indeterminable lenght, clutching her blue beaded bag to her chest with one arm as she glomps down her coffee with the other, her gaze keeping up with the subconscious rhythm of her feet, watching her high-heeled shoes as she puts one foot in front of the other. Every now and then, she slows down to look at the red digits announcing arrival details of each flight, checks her watch, and resumes her stride.

Although quite still as opposed to Garcia's restlessness, Reid looks just as nervous as he chews on his fingernails and keeps craning his neck to keep the gates perfectly within his sight. His face is far too pale, his eyes sunken deeply into a pool of purple darkness. With a sigh, he wraps his arms around himself as though he's cold, which seems implausible, as despite the heat, he's wearing a cardigan over his shirt, and tucks his hands under his armpits. Studying him with a keen gaze, Rossi suspects he hasn't slept much since they've learned the truth three days ago.

The older profiler himself is seated on one of the hard, leather-covered benches. He's leaning back against his seat, legs crossed, and for any passer-by, he seems the perfect picture of a man who's used to waiting to welcome friends in airports. He sips his coffee with casual grace; there's even a folded newspaper lying just next to his knee. But when he's not watching the anxious technical-analyst, the sickly-looking genius, or the grim, motionless agent with a protective glance, his gaze falls on nothing particular, and his eyes become glassy as he entertains private thoughts.

The last one of the group is standing eract not far from Rossi, but in a casual distance from Reid and Garcia. Morgan is standing so rigidly that the tension in his muscles is almost palpable; his brow is furrowed in a troubled crease, and there's a defensive look in his dark eyes that puts a distance between himself and the rest of the world. Perhaps it is necessary, for what goes on behind the though posture is a raging conflict of emotions; the desire to leave struggling against the impossibility to do so; easy expectance of the familiar clashing against the difficult anticipation of the unfamiliar.

Overhead, an invisible pair of lips mechanically announce the timely landing of Flight Number 026 of Air France, departing from Paris and bound for Washington. The passangers will be arriving shortly through Gate G3A.

A course of energy travels through the waiting crowd. People move closer to the security tape before the doors, and it feels like the noise of the chatter has increased.

Between the four of them, the silence only thickens.

They watch the glass doors slide open, and the first passangers from Paris appear. Rossi rises to his feet; Garcia walks hastily towards the front. Morgan shifts closer to the others, and Reid pales even more.

With their hearts at their throats, they fix their gazes to the incoming crowd, and they wait.

/

A girl breaks free from the hand of a flight-attandant, and runs to her family with a squeal. Two slant-eyed men shake hands with a woman who's been holding up a card with names on it. A group of middle-aged tourists manouver around the crowd as they chat in unfamiliar tongues.

Impatience is in the air, as those who wait for their loved ones wish for the crowd to split up and reveal the familiar face.

At first, they nearly miss her.

They're looking for the tough woman with the raven hair and bangs, supporting black pants and jacket and boots, and they're not even aware of the absurdity of that expectation because Prentiss wouldn't wear a jacket and boots in a hot summer day.

Their eyes search for the one they thought they'd laid in a coffin and buried. It is not whom they find.

Among the newcomers, someone halts at a step, causing a momentary irritation in the flow of people still pouring in from behind. It's a tall woman with red hair with a pair of big sunglasses perched on the flocks. There's a leather-strapped backpack thrown over her shoulder, pulling the stylishly torn sleeve of her grey tee-shirt, baring a white, bony shoulder. Battered jeans and sandals carrying the dirt of the road, one small luggage in one hand, she seems the perfect definition of a globe-trotter.

No, it is not the Emily Prentiss they expect. But it is definitely her.

For what feels like a lifetime, they stare at each other. And then, Prentiss takes one step forward, and then another, and closes the distance.

It is not a very ordinary reunion.

It is not exactly joyful. Not exactly warm. Not very tearful. Not cold or reluctant, either.

Somehow, it is a mixture of all, and none at all at the same time.

If anything, it is genuine.

Garcia hugs Prentiss tightly, her body trembling as she successfully fights against giving in to sobs. She doesn't even feel the slight dampness on her own shoulder.

Reid's lower lip is quivering, although there is no telling whether he's at the verge of tears or about to break into a smile. He hugs Prentiss. She whispers something in his ear, and he responds in kind.

Rossi smiles, eyes bright, and welcomes her home. Prentiss reaches for his hands and squeezes them with more gratitude than words can express.

Morgan doesn't move or smile. Neither does she. They share a long, wordless greeting.

Then, slowly, Morgan raises his hand, car keys dangling from his fingers like a peace offer, and with a slight curl of her lips, Prentiss nods.

It is not exactly homecoming.

But it certainly feels like it.


	2. Face Off

There is only one SUV.

Morgan drives, Rossi rides shotgun. Reid and Garcia have Emily squeezed between them at the backseat, and it's strange how easily conversation unfolds.

It's small talk, but it doesn't feel small. They ask her about the flight, they gently joke about the ragged look she supports. Small talk, she knows, lightly scraping the tension, only to get to the real issue, the deeper issue, but until it comes to that, she'll savor the moment.

Heat is oppressive in the backseat. She can feel Reid's long, bony leg stretching alongside hers. His hair is longer; it suits him better. There's a smile on his face, happy and so content that Emily feels a burst of love for him, and she gently leans against his shoulder.

His smile grows. He's nearly glowing.

Enclasped in Garcia's soft fingers, Emily's hand is slick with sweat. She looks at their hands resting on her knee, and she silently thanks God for this. For being able to hold Garcia's hand, and for seeing her again, in a flower-patterned yellow dress, leaf-shaped earrings and a huge ladybug for a barrette in her hair. God knows Emily has imagined her own (faked) funeral. She's hated thinking about Garcia in a black dress.

She looks up, and catches Rossi's eye. He's looking at them over his shoulder; it seems like an uncomfortable position. She jokes that he will have serious neck-pain if he keeps it up; he waves a dismissive hand and tells her then not to be a pain the neck.

Even Reid makes a face at the bad joke, and yet, they still chuckle.

That is, they all except for Morgan.

For he still hasn't said a word, not to her and not to the others.

Once in a while Emily catches his look from the rear mirror. It's a dark look, something unidentifiable brims behind a veil of calm. She holds that gaze until he has to divert it to look at the road.

They need to talk. They all need to talk, but it is much too soon now, and much too late at the same time.

Only time Morgan speaks is when he asks for directions. Emily pulls out a folded piece of paper and reads the address to her new apartment. It's downtown.

Twenty minutes later, they're standing outside a fancy apartment block, and she has solemnly promised them to be right there when they call. They say goodbye. Rossi and Reid take a cab together, for they live at the same part of the city, and Garcia walks away, murmuring about having errands to run while she's downtown.

And then, with her one luggage in Morgan's hand, Emily finds herself alone with him in an unfamiliar apartment that is now hers.

/

His hand pushes the door close, and imprisons them into a thick, palpable silence.

For a minute, neither of them moves. They're standing in a large hallway, the walls are covered with dark wood siding. Right in front of them is an enormous living room; from where they stand, they can see the last rays of sunlight falling to pieces on the colorless carpet. The rest of the place is swimming in tender darkness.

Slowly, Prentiss moves to leave the keys on an extravagant marble stand, making a face at the piece as she does, and walks into the living room. The air is languid, a faint odor of leather tugs at their nostrils. She eases her backpack on the floor, and lowers herself onto the cushions of a tasteless couch.

Morgan remains motionless by the front door.

It's not like he doesn't have anything to say. It's just that he'd never thought he'd have the chance to say it.

He looks around, just to get a feel of his surroundings, and maybe to find some distraction, but there is none.

"You look good," he offers at length. His voice scratches against the silence.

Prentiss's lips twitch, but she doesn't laugh.

"Do I?"

"Compared to the last time I saw you, yeah."

From his position in the hallway, Morgan can only see her silhouette on the couch. A faint gleam in her eyes.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I'm alive."

He snorts, utterly devoid of humor.

"No kidding."

Silence thickens. The shards of sunlight on the floor visibly shrink and vanish, leaving them in the fresh dimness of the evening, and with heavy, cautious steps, Morgan walks into the room.

Prentiss reaches forward and turns on the nearby floor lamp.

"You're pissed," she states.

It is the resignation in her voice that flicks the ash, ignites the spark. "You bet I am," Morgan confirms.

"I figured you would," she says uselessly.

"Of course you figured. You've had five months to think about it, put together your explanations."

Bitter contempt seeping into his words. Prentiss's eyes narrow as she stiffens in her seat, and Morgan briefly wonders what he's doing here, standing across from a stranger in this bland, near-empty living room. The red in the curls of her hair makes her face seem even paler, brings out the shadows under those cheekbones, creates a contrast with the careworn complexion.

And yet, when she speaks, the dark eyes that bore into him are those of the Emily Prentiss that he knows.

"You think I spent my time profiling you like you're some unsub?"

"No," he says, voice laced with cold anger. "I'm just saying that I'm pissed, because my boss told me, three days ago, that my dead partner is actually alive, 'cause her death was faked. We have mourned her death and blamed ourselves and _missed_ her for all these months for _nothing_." He glares at her. "Do you know how that feels?"

Prentiss looks down at her lap. "No," she quietly replies. "No, Derek, I don't."

_(His name feels all wrongs on her tongue. She doesn't like the feeling.)_

She leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees. Her hair rushes forward, curtaining her face, and -_damn it,_through each little crack seeps the Emily Prentiss that Derek knows, belying the way she looks, belying the way things seem to be.

"So how do we do this, Prentiss?" he demands. He doesn't want to hear apologies or excuses. He just wants to make things right.

"What do you want me to say?" Prentiss questions. "I told you what I could at the time. The rest you all have already figured out." She seems resigned, stoic. "What else you need to know, Derek, go ahead and ask."

Morgan smiles bitterly as he takes a seat on a chair across from her. "You know, I'd have a dozen questions if you'd said that any time before I found you with a stick impaled on your stomach."

Prentiss's hand involuntarily flies to her midsection at the mention of the incident. She uncomfortably shifts in her seat, throwing him a guarded glance.

"And now?"

"Now?" He sighs. Leaning back against his seat, he folds his arms across the chest. "You know, we all thought about it. Right after your 'funeral'. Replayed everything in our minds; questioned what we could have done differently. Why we didn't push you harder." He releases a breath through his nose, shifting in his seat. "I did that. Retraced every step. Asked myself why, Prentiss; why you couldn't have just cracked at some point and told us about Doyle, so we could do something about it. Wondered why you couldn't have trusted us, but..." He looks up again, and dark eyes meet dark eyes.

"It has never been about trust, has it?"

"No," Prentiss steadily confirms. Derek doesn't miss the tentative relief in her voice. "It was never about trust. I never kept anything from you or the team just for the sake of it."

Morgan nods, his eyes softening a bit. "There's also the fact that you slept with Doyle."

There is no anger or condescension in his voice, but Prentiss flinches as though she'd been slapped.

"What do you think of that?" she spits, suddenly defensive. "What does that make me, Derek? A slut? Worse?"

Morgan frowns. Prentiss is glaring at him, her eyes daring him to challenge her, to bring up her dirty laundry and rub it in her face, and Morgan can't help it, he once again thinks how different, and yet how familiar she looks.

He mutely shakes his head. Prentiss runs her fingers through her hair and rubs her face with both hands before speaking again.

"It was a different life," she says stiffly, but her voice is loud and clear, her chin is high. "I didn't tell anyone about it because I wanted to forget about it. To keep it separate from myself, like it wasn't - like Lauren Reynolds really was a different person." She pauses. "And, yes, I wasn't proud of it, either," she adds in reference to Morgan's reminder.

It's a curt admission, but for some reason, it sooths Morgan. Maybe it is the bared truth in Prentiss's voice that calms him down; whatever it is... he trusts it.

"Fair enough."

With a sigh, Prentiss gathers her hair and tosses it over her shoulder. Somehow, it feels a little easier for both of them to breathe now, to sit across each other after all this time, despite everything.

"I got one question," he says at length.

She nods once.

"Did you know what they were going to do? Fake your death?"

She licks her lips before speaking. "Yes. Clyde came right after I was out of surgery. I was rather out it, but... I gave my consent."

Holding her gaze, Morgan nods heavily. His hands open at the sides.

"And so we're this mess." Prentiss's brow creases, lips part as though to leash out at the unfairness of that deduction, putting all the blame on her as though she's intended on it, but Morgan continues. "I understand, Emily. God knows I needed the time," he adds, smiling crookedly, "but I got it. Fact of the matter is, any of us would do whatever it takes to keep this team safe. And yet, the fact remains that we're all messed up."

Prentiss sighs, her eyes sad when she speaks. "Better be alive and messed up than dead, Derek."

Keeping her gaze, Derek slowly nods. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, it is."

"Just... I'd - wish you wouldn't blame Hotch or JJ for not telling you guys about me."

He looks at her carefully. "Can you stop blaming yourself for the situation we're in?"

She sharply looks up. "I've had my reasons, Derek; I did what I had to do."

"You did," he agrees, "and you'll continue to feel guilty about it."

Prentiss doesn't respond, but turns her head away from him, squaring her shoulders in a familiar gesture. It makes Morgan smile.

"Rationalize all we may, Emily," he puts. "The feeling remains."

There, they have their answer.

They've both been doing this job long enough to learn the value of time. They both know there is no way to untie these knots, to move around this tension, but to leave it to time.

Slowly, Morgan rises to his feet. So does Prentiss.

"I'll see you around, Prentiss," he says.

"You will," she agrees. Looking at her, Derek finally sees the friend that he'd thought he's lost, and for once, something close to a smile touches his lips.

"Thank you," Emily adds.

It is a 'thank you' for his understanding. For his acknowledgment of her reasons. For saying he'll be seeing her around. It is a 'thank you' for this conversation, for both of them will now have a little peace of mind.

He nods. He doesn't voice his own thanks, but Prentiss knows that it's there.

"Call if you need anything," he says, standing outside the door, just before he turns to leave.

She says she will, and closes the door with a smile.


	3. Balance

_**A/N:** Criminal Minds is back, and as it's been the custom for over a year, I am not happy with the direction the show is taking. After this week's episode, it seemed appropriate to revisit this unfinished story. This chapter had been drafted way before the end of last season, so it doesn't necessarily follow the set-up we've seen in the first two episodes of this season. My characterization, as you'll see, greatly differ from that of the Season Six and Seven writers. It's an alternative I enjoy escaping to._

_A little reminder: this story is a sequel to 'On the Watercourse'. If something makes your eyebrow quirk, it's probably because it's referring to something in OtW._

_Thank you for reading._

* * *

><p><em>"Prentiss is not dead."<em>

_/_

_Utter silence weighing down on them; blocking all thoughts, restraining movement._

_One sentence entrapped into an unreal moment in time._

_Hotch's quite voice follows Garcia's trembling one. Morgan's chair harshly scrapes the floor as as he rises to his feet._

_Voices are raised. Rossi puts a hand on Morgan's arm, but the latter shakes it off like a it's a bug. Garcia biting her lip, eyes large and glistening, but mostly, she looks suspended; unsure, lost._

_Morgan walks out. Rossi follows._

_Himself?_

_He hasn't found his voice yet. Hasn't found his thoughts._

_He feels his palms flat on the table's smooth surface. Watches his hands get smaller as he rises to his full height, and his feet carry him out of the room._

_(Has Hotch called after him?)_

_And then..._

/

Exactly one week after the day Hotch has told the team about Prentiss. Reid and Prentiss meet at a local coffee shop.

For the first time in months, they're about to talk.

/

Prentiss watches the deep crease on Reid's brow as the latter keeps his head bent down, staring at the sugar shaker which stands just at the end of his prolonged fingers, fingertips in gentle contact with the thick glass. It has been seven minutes since Reid has arrived. Six minutes and forty seconds since he's hugged her and they sat down at this tiny table, outside on the pavement. Four minutes since they've ordered.

For four minutes, they have been sitting in silence.

The café is located on a quiet by-street. A bright summer day, late in the Sunday morning. The green awning overhead casts a hard shadow on the customers, slicing the pavement into two jagged zones of dark and light.

The sun falls onto Reid left arm. The rest of him is safe under the shadow.

"Well," Prentiss says at length, "this is awkward."

Reid looks up, blinking rapidly into the strong light. Emily's hair is red, falling onto her shoulders in thick waves. To him, _that_ is awkward. The sight of her. The fact that she is there at all.

"Sorry," he apologizes for falling into a reverie. "Sorry, I was just..."

"It's okay," Prentiss softly interrupts. He smiles her that little, shy smile of his.

"Have you, ah, settled into your new place?"

"There wasn't much to settle with," Prentiss answers with a shrug, "I came with one luggage."

Reid knits his eyebrows. "Where'd all your stuff go?"

"Sold with my old apartment." She's obviously not sad about the situation. "I was on the move the whole time. Didn't collect souvenirs."

Reid's eyes are watchful on her face. It's like he's searching for something, an unsure expectance in the lines around his eyes, and Prentiss expects him to speak, but he doesn't. She can almost see the questions lining in his mind. One question at the tip his tongue, but he finds the answer without having to ask. Then comes the next, and he figures it out, too. She lets him clear his mind.

It's almost five minutes later that he has a question to be asked.

"Emily, were you all alone after... after you left the country?"

"Yes," she replies. "It was safer that way."

"Yeah, but..." He frowns deeply. "How about your recovery? There wasn't anyone to help you out?"

For a moment, Prentiss looks too touched to speak, but she blinks, and the expression is schooled into neutrality.

"No, but it wasn't too bad after leaving the hospital. Took about three weeks until I started jogging," she says with a roll of her eyes. It's satisfying enough for Reid.

A waitress finally arrives with their orders, eight minutes after they've ordered. They lean against their seats and allow the young woman to leave the steaming cup of coffee in front of Reid and a glass of cherry juice by Prentiss. They thank the waitress and dismiss her.

Reid winces while taking his first sip from the coffee. It's more of a grimace; he quickly reaches for the shaker and proceeds to pour more sugar into the cup.

"Are you okay, Reid?" Prentiss asks conversationally. He looks up, confused.

"Yeah; yeah, I'm fine."

"No, I mean... are you really okay?" Prentiss repeats, not necessarily explaining the subtle shift of meaning in her question. Understanding flashes in Reid's eyes, and he casts them down on his coffee, brow once again creasing.

"I am really fine," he repeats slowly. He doesn't explain the shift in his answer, either.

Prentiss smiles, leaning back in her seat as she raises her glass to her lips. "Forgive me if I don't immediately believe that, Dr. Reid, coming from you."

Reid's lips twitch. He slowly reaches into his bag and takes out his sunglasses.

"How is your head?" Prentiss finally asks. The question is so soft that it dissolves between them like a wisp of vapor.

The tables keep turning.

/

_How is his head?_

"It's..."

_Better? Worse?_

"... the same," he finishes.

"Have you seen another doctor? Did they find the cause?"

"I haven't seen a new doctor," Reid replies, shaking his head quickly as though to dismiss the topic.

"How bad are the headaches?"

Reid looks at her from behind the protective cover of the shades. There's concern in Emily's dark eyes; immense interest, genuine care, and the simple fact occurs to him that just one week ago, she was gone to him. It feels like an alternate reality; the world he's lived in until seven days ago, the world where Emily had been dead, doesn't, and will never feel any less real than the solid presence of her friend that he feels now. It's not easy to adjust, but that presence itself forces Reid to be truthful.

"They're pretty bad," he admits.

"Reid," Emily calls, leaning through him over the table, "you've told the team, haven't you?"

"Morgan knows," he says quickly, nodding. The fingers of his left hand curl inwards, muscles subtly tensing, but they relax before turning into a fist.

"What about the others? Have you told Hotch?"

"No. I - ah - they think it was a one-time thing."

Emily pulls back, looking at him with confusion. "What was a one-time thing?"

_Darn it._

Frustrated, Reid reaches for the shaker and pours some sugar onto the table. He begins drawing shapes on it with his index finger, pushing around the little crystallines.

"Reid, what happened?" Prentiss insists. Reid doesn't want to talk about his headaches (he thinks), but he can't, he can't lie, or dodge the questions. It feels like this (alternate) reality is a blessing, a gift so forceful in its nature that it is all he can do to stick with the truth, his own truths, all that he owns to Emily.

She is here, and that alone has only ever been the one reality he'd ask for.

"I - ah - kind of ended up in the hospital once."

"You_ what?_"

"It was nothing - it wasn't too bad, really. I mean, it wasn't just the headache; I wasn't feeling too well anyway, and it came on top of it - honestly, it wasn't even an overnight stay, it's not big deal..."

The half-amused, affectionate smile on Emily's face is what makes him falter and finally cease to talk. With the imprint of his own rambling in his ears, he notices how much he's revealed while trying to cover up one thing, and suddenly, his face feels hot.

When he dares steal another glance at her, the smile is gone, and concern is back.

"Why weren't you feeling well?" she demands. He wishes the interrogation would stop already (_does he?_) because, of all the things to talk about, why are they talking about his headaches?

"Just lack of sleep, you know," he replies with a shrug. He can lie, and say it was after having worked a hard case, but _why would he?_

Then, she says something he doesn't expect.

"I'm sorry, Reid."

/

"Would you like a refill?"

Both of them look up sharply at the voice, only then noticing that the waitress has materialized beside them. Reid nods, Prentiss shakes her head. The waitress leaves as quietly as she's come.

"What are you sorry for?" Reid asks, looking genuinely confused. Prentiss shrugs, fiddling with the strap of her bag.

"For everything. For what you went through. For leaving you alone. "

For Emily, it's strange how easily the words are stringing up. There's a strange knot in her chest and she's trying to untie it; she's following the threads, but there's no telling where they're taking her.

"Emily, you don't need to apologize," Reid tries to assure her. In the shade of the awning, his brown eyes are clear, convincing. "Hotch and JJ have expained us everything. I know why you did all you did."

"I know you do," Emily confirms, nodding. "It's just - I feel guilty," she admits, shrugging matter-of-factly as she licks her lips, looking around the street just so she doesn't have to face Reid's genuinity.

"Why?" comes the soft question. "I understand your reasons. You were trying to protect us, and you did. There's nothing for you to be sorry for."

"Oh yeah?"

There's disbelief in her voice, outright defiance, but it's not harsh. "I'm sorry," she begins, "because I walked out on you right after you trusted me about something personal. I know it's not rational," she rushes to ensure, chin held up, "I had my reasons and I didn't intend to - leave you hanging like that. But still."

Why is it that the simple acceptance written across Reid's face is makings her so uncomfortable? She looks at him, and she feels like she's wrong. About what she doesn't know; she's speaking the truth, telling him what she feels to make amends, but she looks at Reid, and it only feels like no matter how accepting he is, whatever she says, it will never be true enough.

Softly,"I know," Reid says.

Of course he knows. Of course he understands; that is exactly what is is the most difficult with Reid. There's nothing to explain to him; answers won't help when there are no questions.

They know that making sense of things doesn't necessarily sooth the emotions. There is sadness floating about the understanding in Reid's eyes, and that is what Prentiss can't touch, can't reach and dispell, and that is why that knot in her chest remains.

What has happened has happened.

There's nothing more to be said that can restore the balance. Neither of their truths can carry them back onto the same page, onto the same place they've been before.

Reid's hand reaches forward on the table, utterly without hesitancy, and enclasps Emily's hand in a surprisingly smooth palm. The simple touch closes more distance between them than any other truth could.

The rest, they leave to time.


End file.
